“Now when Spunk and I get to training—oh, and you haven't seen Spunk!” she interrupted herself suddenly. “Why, the introductions aren't half over. Where is he, Uncle William—the basket?”
“I—I put it in—in the hall,” mumbled William, starting to rise.
“No, no; I'll get him,” cried Billy, hurrying from the room. She returned in a moment, the green covered basket in her hand. “He's been asleep, I guess. He's slept 'most all the way down, anyhow. He's so used to being toted 'round in this basket that he doesn't mind it a bit. I take him everywhere in it at the Falls.”
There was an electric pause. Four pairs of startled, questioning, fearful eyes were on the basket while Billy fumbled at the knot of the string. The next moment, with a triumphant flourish, Billy lifted from the basket and placed on the floor a very small gray kitten with a very large pink bow.
“There, ladies and gentlemen, may I present to you, Spunk.”
The tiny creature winked and blinked, and balanced for a moment on sleepy legs; then at the uncontrollable shout that burst from Bertram's throat, he faced the man, humped his tiny back, bristled his diminutive tail to almost unbelievable fluffiness, and spit wrathfully.
“And so that is Spunk!” choked Bertram.
“Yes,” said Billy. “This is Spunk.”